I'll Be Back
by This Boy
Summary: If you asked him, George Harrison would never tell you that he'd met Catherine Scott.  He'd never say that he liked her loud, outlandish ways.  Most of all, he'd never admit to having any feelings for her.  How could he fall in love with a dead girl?
1. Chapter 1

**Well…hi. My name is Logan, and I'm pretty new in this section. On this website, actually. This is really just something random, and I don't know how long I'm going to make it or if I'm ever even going to add any more chapters. But here it is :D**

George took his girl by the hand, smiling as he wove in between the wild dancers. They all looked at him as he went past, of course, but he only held one gaze. Paul gave him a furtive wink, then looked back at the girl he was hitting on.

"George," the girl behind him whined, dragging her feet slightly. "Can't we hurry up?" Her words were slurred, and he could feel the girl's deep blue eyes on the back of his head. It gave him the chills, so he stopped and waited for her to catch up. When she was by his side, he started forward again.

"My flat is just up the street," he answered in that quiet way of his, side-glancing at her. She didn't seem to be paying attention anymore. "Not too far now."

As the pair approached the large, brick building, the girl's pace increased. Why couldn't he remember her name? It would be terrible if he called her the wrong thing, wouldn't it? Ah, well. You couldn't remember EVERYONE that passed through the house. There were quite a number of girls, to be honest.

"Hello, sir. Have a nice night?" the doorman asked as George and his friend passed. He guy tried really hard not to look at the girl, who was ogling him as though she had never seen a proper doorman before.

"Hello," she said loudly.

George blinked, leaving his eyes closed for a second or too longer than strictly necessary. Was she gonna be trouble. "C'mon," he whispered quietly, tugging gently on her arm.

Instead of going with him, the girl took a large, stumbling step towards the doorman—what was his name? George wished he knew.

"My name's Catherine," she said to him, as though it were perfectly ordinary to introduce yourself to the doorman of the man you were going home with. She was so plastered, though, that George doubted she'd even remember this in the morning. He didn't really see the point of worrying.

The doorman smiled. "Hello, Miss Catherine."

For some reason, this made Catherine extremely happy. "George!" she squealed, grabbing at his hand. "George, he called me 'Miss'!" She turned back towards the man. "I've never been called Miss by anyone. Except for my old Granddad, of course, but he's long gone. Bless him."

"That's great," George said, trying to steer her towards the door that was still being held open for them. "Why don't we just go upstairs?"

But his attempt was ignored.

"What's your name?" Catherine inquired, her eyes large and doe-like. The doorman looked rather taken aback.

He pointed to his name-badge. "Peter, Miss. My name is Peter. Now, it seems as though Mr. Harrison is getting rather anxious—you wouldn't want to keep him." He gave her a soft smile, wrinkles forming in the corners of his eyes.

"Harrison?" Catherine repeated, turning to stare at the rather pissed off George. Then, as if something had just occurred to her, she gasped. She leaned in towards Peter. "Is that George Harrison?"

Peter let out an amused chuckle. "Why, yes. I believe so. Didn't he tell you?"

She shrugged, looking at him again. "Yeah, suppose he did. I didn't believe him, though. Thought he just wanted to get me in bed!"

George blushed a little bit, looking down at his feet. Why couldn't she just shut up and go upstairs? Why did HE always get the talky ones? Paul and John would be much better equipped to deal with them—God knows Ringo would be, too, from the things they say about him.

Almost as though she had picked up on his uncomfortablness, Catherine moved towards him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "George…do you want to go upstairs?" She looked up at him with those eyes—oh, those eyes. They could break hearts, those eyes could.

"Yes," he said in exasperation. He offered her a weak smile, which she returned wholeheartedly.

"Okay," she responded, then spun around. "I bid you farewell, Sir Peter!"

"And you, Miss Catherine," he called back, a deep chuckle added onto the end.

…

It was some hours later that George woke up, drenched in a cold sweat. His heart was pounding, and around him the world was spinning. He felt out of control, scared, and he was trying desperately to regain normal breathing.

Next to him, Catherine slept on. She lay sprawled on the other side of the King Size, her arms open wide and her bare chest rising and falling with each breath she took. As if she could feel him watching her, she suddenly spun around, leaving the bed shaking wildly.

"Please, not again," she moaned, her voice sounding light and airy. "I don't like grape Popsicles." Her face scrunched up, as if she smelled something that displeased her. "I'm allergic!"

George ran a hand through his slightly damp, full head of hair, chuckling at the sight of her. It brought him back to his bedroom, and quickly found his stomach rumbling. Pulling a plain white tee shirt over his bony chest, he ambled out of the room and into the kitchen.

A quick glance at the clock told him it was a little after four in the morning. Smiling to himself, he put on a pot of coffee and took a peek through the cupboards, trying to remember what he'd stocked up on last time he was were. All he found were Corn Flakes and marshmallows. Ahh, fuck. He must have had John do the shopping for him.

With a sigh, he pulled the bag of marshmallows out of the cabinet, popped one in his mouth, and poured himself a steaming mug of coffee.

Without thinking, his hands reached for the phone.

"Ello?" grumbled a sleepy voice on the fourth ring. He had clearly been pulled out of a deep sleep.

"Ello, indeed," George muttered, glancing into his bedroom. There were no signs of life.

Paul sighed deeply, and George could hear a voice in the background as he fumbled for something. George waited patiently for a response, but only rustling filled his ears. And then:

"Why in God's bloody name are you up so early, mate?"

George dragged the phone towards his couch, sprawling out on it and measuring his words carefully in his mind. "I'm…I'm a bit freaked out, to be honest."

"And why's that?"

He took a deep breath, glancing through the French doors that led to the bedroom once more. Catherine still appeared to be sound asleep. And why shouldn't she be? Most normal human beings were. "I had a…a really weird dream."

"Fuckin' hell, George! You woke me up to tell me about a bloody dream?"

George chomped down on his lip, hesitating. "It…it wasn't just a dream, Paul. It was real. Realer than any dream I've ever had before."

"Sorry, so you've woken me up at this time because of a nightmare? Oh, grow up, you—"

"You know that girl I brought home tonight?" George interrupted, closing his eyes and figuring he might as well get on with it while he still had Paul on the phone. "Catherine?"

"Sure."

"I dreamt that…" He tried to find the best way to say it, but honestly his choices weren't all that great. "I dreamt that she died. And it wasn't like one of those dreams where something happens and then another thing happens and then a girl I barely know gets killed and then another thing happens—no, it wasn't like that."

"What was it like?"

"It was like…I was watching her die. And that was the dream, ya know? Like I was watching—from a building or something—and this girl goes to cross the street in traffic. And she's smiling and laughing, yeah, and I didn't recognize her at first. But then…" George inhaled quickly, the vividness of the dream coming back to him. "It hit her—a car, a truck, I don't really remember—and then suddenly I wasn't up in the building, I was right next to her. And I was holding her in my arms…"

"That's some deep shit, mate."

"Yeah…and I was crying."

"You were what?"

"Crying. I was crying. And I just kept whispering her name, over and over. Catherine. And then I woke up, thinking she was dead, and she was right there. Right next to me, sleeping away. But I could have sworn I'd just seen her die."

There was silence on the other end, and George figured that Paul was probably struggling for words. The great Paul McCartney? Struggling for words? Now there was a first.

Finally there was an intake of breath. "It was only a dream. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." No.

"George, mate, you hardly know this girl. You only met her last night, right?"

"Yes." But it didn't feel like it.

"And you said she's still there?"

"Yes."

"Mmkay, you need to get her out of there. As soon as she wakes up. No need to be a gentleman about it, either. She's rooted into your brain for some reason, which is pretty obvious by the way you're dreaming about her." It was as though Paul had done it a million times. The bastard, he probably had.

"I'm dreaming about her death, Paulie. That's a little…fuck, I don't even know." He ran a hand through his now dry bed head, trying to get some sense back into it. "It's almost as if I care about her."

"You don't, do you?"

"I've barely talked to her!" he exclaimed, exasperated. "Besides for that little bit with the doorman, I don't know anything about her!"

"The doorman?"

"Yeah, Peter."

Another sigh. "You're too difficult. I'm going back to bed. Good morning, George."

"Good morning, Paul."

And then he hung up, and George was left with nothing but his thoughts, his coffee, and his marshmallows. He popped another one of those in his mouth, and then chased it with a gulp of the steaming, bitter drink. Coffee; the drink that made the world go round.

His eye suddenly caught the gleam of his acoustic guitar, which was sitting in a corner propped up on the wall. He reached forward, took it in his grasp, and set it on his lap. For George, there was nothing that could amount to the feel of his guitar. The way it curved just perfectly around his thigh, how his lanky arms seemed the perfect size when they were wrapped around its smooth wooden surface, how he never seemed to need a pick; his fingers were calloused in just the right places.

Before he knew it, his fingers were sliding over the frets, his thumb strumming out chords, his mind completely lost in the music. Surely, this was love.

And then there were lips on the back of his neck. Soft, pillowy things that he just wanted to melt into. They came to his ear. "I know that tune," she whispered, sending shivers down his back.

It wasn't like George had never had a women in his flat before, but after the dream he just had, he was acting nervous and jumpy. As though he didn't know what to do with himself. So, instead of responding, he just stared straight ahead and tried to pretend like she wasn't there. She would think he was an arrogant son of a bitch, right? She'd probably storm around his apartment, picking up her belongings and muttering about being ignored.

But, no. Instead, Catherine leapt over the back of the couch, then slowly lowered herself down to the rhythm of the music. She swayed her hips, a big goofy smile plastered on her lips. George side glanced at her, and he quickly looked away with a smirk. She looked so funny.

The thing was, George wasn't exactly…smooth, you could say, with women. He was awkward and quiet and his feet were much too large. Not that that had anything to do with it, but he just always saw it as a contributing factor. He could just hear the women he'd been with whispering about him.

"Did you sleep with that George Harrison?"

"Yeah, his feet were so damn big! And his hands…damn, has he ever heard of lotion?"

George shook his head, clearing his thoughts of all his imperfections. He flipped his hair back into position, and then began strumming faster and weaving his fingers in intricate patterns. Next to him, Catherine was silent. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her big smile.

"George Harrison," he barely heard her whisper. "Fuck my life."

And then he stopped. Her words brought a sense of confidence to him—something he certainly lacked, even though he was quite famous. "Why don't you like grape flavored Popsicles?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes and turning to look at her.

This caught Catherine off guard.

"What?"

"Grape Popsicles. Are you seriously allergic to them?"

At this, Catherine bit her lip worriedly. "Oh shit, was I talking in my sleep again?"

George responded with a blank nod, trying not to convey any real feeling into it. In all actuality, he didn't know what to feel. He had a blanket rule that he didn't talk to the women he slept with. Not in the morning, not after the initial sex, and never again. That went right along with what Paul had instructed him on. As though George didn't know the rules. But still, when he had felt Catherine kissing the back of his neck, had he pushed her away? Had he asked her to leave? Had he made up some nonexistent meeting with the lads so that she would go? No, the thought hadn't even occurred to him.

Why was this, he wondered. Why?

Catherine stood up, wringing her hands together worriedly. "I don't like grape Popsicles because when I was younger, my sister used to always eat all the orange and cherry. And all that would be left was grape, and then I had to eat those ones."

George gave her an odd look. "So you're not allergic?"

"No," she admitted with a small, conniving smile. "But I told my mum that so she would let me have some of the cherry and orange. Worked like a charm."

George had to wonder what exactly was in a grape Popsicle that you could be allergic to. Perhaps the dye? He'd have to look into that.

Wait…what? Why would he have to— He pushed the thought away angrily, upset that he couldn't be more like the rest of the boys and be so easy around women. They honestly scared the shit out of him. Not that Catherine was scary…not at all, to be honest. He actually kind of liked her.

Big mistake.

"Smart," he allowed, resting his guitar on the ground. "You want coffee? I promise there's no grape."

She didn't even smile. "That wasn't a funny joke," she informed him, striding right into the kitchen and disappearing into a cupboard. She came out with no coffee grinds, so she moved on.

"Try the fridge," he hinted, waiting her from the door way.

She immediately started complaining, whipping around and snatching the grinds from the door of the refrigerator. "Who the hell keeps their coffee in the fridge? I bet this is going to be disgusting. Like, throw up before you even reach the bathroom disgusting."

George just stood there, listening delightedly to her complaints, thinking the whole time how much he wanted to grab her and bring her back to bed. Wasn't that odd? He had never felt like that the morning after, so the whole second time thing was kind of new to him. He pondered how she might respond if he threw her against the counter and—

No, he would never do that. George might get a lot of women, but it had nothing to do with his confidence level.

Soon, the machine was gurgling and popping away happily, and the air filled with the enticing smell of caffeine. Catherine turned around, a sort of blank expression on her face. She took a step forward.

"You don't say much, do you?"

He smiled thinly; it wasn't the first time someone had said this to him. "Not really, no."

"Why?"

That one was new. "I dunno…" He hesitated, not really having an explanation. "I guess…I just don't see the point of talking when nothing really needs to be said."

She closed the distance between them, inclining her head ever so slightly to look up into his eyes. He was struck once again by the vast blue pools that gazed back at him, and he had to blink a couple times to regain thought.

"But I like the sound of your voice," she said softly, raising her finger and tracing his collarbone through the white tee shirt.

Ridiculous at it was, George's heart began to beat a little faster. His muscles ached, and his thoughts were completely fried. It was like the only world he knew was right in front of him, fingering his bony ass chest. What was wrong with him? He had a million things to do today. Press conferences, meeting with the lads, playing around on his guitar, trying to write his damn song, learning his lines…it was just hectic. He didn't have time to lose himself in a girl that was only going to be there another hour or two.

But these thoughts must have seemed trivial to some part of his brain, for the next thing he knew, George was leaning forward, wrapping his arms around her, taking in her warmth. Kissing her.

Let's just say that after that, the coffee was much forgotten.

…

Catherine left the flat at three o'clock that afternoon, a huge grin adorning her soft features. George stood at the window, watching as she bounded down the apartment building's stairs, danced onto the sidewalk, and opened her mouth and screamed something.

He saw her turn as she called back to Peter The Doorman. What was she saying? Goodbye? So long? Nice knowing you? Oh God…see you later? But maybe that's what George wanted. Maybe he wanted Catherine to come back, if only to have sex that great again.

But there was always that chance that what they had was beyond sex. Sure, they had spent last night together and almost the entire day, but he wanted to know her more. That was an odd, unfamiliar feeling. And somehow, as he watched her happily make her way down the sidewalk, he knew that their parting wouldn't be the last time he got to hold her.

George barely noticed that she was crossing the street before her heard the squelching of tires against pavement. A large truck—which featured giraffes painted in bold colors on the metal box part—was skidding out of control. Around it, cars smashed into each other, their drivers trying desperately to regain control of their automobiles.

And then he remembered why this all seemed so familiar: his dream.

Without thinking, he threw the apartment door open and sprinted down the stairs. He rushed past Peter, who had an ominous look of shock plastered onto his face, and ran his fastest toward the intersection where all the blockage was. In the distance, he heard sirens and screaming and crying, but all he could see was the small figure, lying blood and mangled, right in the middle of the street.

"NO!" he screamed, not believing his eyes. It had to be a dream. It had to be. Things like this…they just didn't come true. "CATHERINE!"

She didn't respond. There was a whole crowd of people gathered in a circle around her banged up body. George pushed through them, shouting her name with more and more fervor as he got closer. No, no, no. This couldn't be.

He didn't care how bad it looked; as soon as he reached the place where she lay, he collapsed to the ground, pulling her into his arms. Putting his fingers to that spot on her chin, George noted that she had a faint pulse. It seemed to be dying with every second, as blood seeped from multiple wounds in her head and cuts all over her body. Her right arm and leg were bent at odd positions. He didn't want to cause her any more pain, but he couldn't help it; he brought her into his arms, holding her with his dear life.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered, tears escaping from the corners of his eyes. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. Catherine…? Sweetheart, can you hear me?"

But she didn't respond. The most he got was a flicker of her eyelids. She was in the hands of death, and he knew it. Her pulse had faded so much that he could barely feel it through the spot on her neck. George knew that he was probably on TV right now, some news station, covered in blood and crying out the name of a girl that he hadn't known until last night. That he barely knew now.

But he felt so responsible.

And then, the moment he had dreaded. The world seemed to pause around him. The sirens blared so loud in his ear that they became one long, continuous sound. The people's talking and screaming and crying and general life became a hum, a certain harmony to the blaring siren sound. No cars moved, the people that raced towards him to try and save her life came in slow motion.

And then her heart stopped.

**I know that was weird and maybe too intense and much too long for a first chapter, but my words kind of got away with me and I just started writing and I could NOT stop for the life of me. If you liked this, please review and tell me what you think. If you didn't like this, also review and tell me that it sucked. Things can be fixed, taken down, whatever.**

**And also, for those of you that didn't know, I'm really new here (like I said above) and the one that kind of introduced me to this website was CrazyCatie. So, I decided to name the main character after her…and then kill her off. With a giraffe truck. Please don't get too mad at me, Catie. I just really like your name. :D**

**REVIEW! …please…?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! It's been a while, this I know, but I never made any promises as far as this story went. But after I saw your reviews, and pretty much all of them were positive, I figured what the hell. I haven't been on here for a while, so this chapter has been kind of half-finished for a while, but recently something someone said to me inspired me. So…here it is!**

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George woke up the next morning, lying still and straight and straining his ears for the sound that woke him up. He was alone—he couldn't bring himself to go out after the day he'd had yesterday—so there shouldn't have been anyone in his flat. Hesitantly, he sat up, letting the covers drop off of him.

He felt ridiculous tip-toeing through his empty apartment, sure that he must have imagined or dreamed the sound. Checking the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, even the cupboard where he kept all his favorite high calorie snack food didn't help one bit. He still felt strange, and when his mind had finally decided that he'd thought up the whole thing, he allowed himself to re-enter his bedroom, grabbing his guitar as he went.

Carefully, he laid back against his pillows, peering out the French doors that separated the living room from his bedroom. There was nothing there. Feeling rather silly, he slid the guitar more firmly into his lap, enjoying the way the cool, smooth wood felt against his bare chest.

"Eh-hem."

There it was, the same throat-clearing noise that he had earlier. It had startled his Catherine-filled dream away, not that he was upset by that. Everything about yesterday still sat heavily in his mind, as much as he tried to forget it. The ambulance showing up, carting away her lifeless body. The press that swarmed him and asked him what relation he had to the girl, where he had met her, how long he had known her, if they had been official, and if they had been official why hadn't George ever said anything about her? The hot shower he took while still dressed in his not-so-white-anymore tee shirt and loose sweats. The blood that ran down the drain for three hours straight. The phone call from Brian, asking him what the hell was going on.

He shook his head quickly, trying to rid himself of the plague of memories. Right now, all he wanted to do was play his guitar and forget the world. And that little noise that he kept imagining.

As he played, he hummed tunelessly, imagining lyrics to go along with this melody. Lyrics were something he struggled on. Making them meaningful enough not to get turned down by John and Paul was a constant struggle.

"I like that."

George jumped about a foot, his guitar sliding off his lap and hitting the ground with a hollow thud. "Who's there?" he asked loudly, his voice coming out slightly squeakier than he intended. He swallowed quickly, his eyes darting around him.

"George, I'm right here."

The voice came from on the bed, right next to him. He turned his head slowly, as though in a horror movie, and the soft featured face came into view. He screamed like a little girl, jumping off the bed and scrambling to find his footing on the ground.

"What the fuck is going on?" he screeched.

The woman looked confused, leaning back and resting her weight on her palms. The fluffy duvet didn't even crinkle under her touch. "Jesus Christ, calm down."

George just stood there, his mouth hanging open like something out of a cartoon. He couldn't believe his eyes. There she was, sitting there just as she had yesterday. Long legs, curvy figure, wide blue eyes, long auburn curly hair, pale skin. Her lips parted in wonder at him.

"Catherine?"

"Hi."

He shook his head frantically, knowing that he must be hallucinating. This could not be happening. No. He was dreaming, sound asleep right now. This was only happening in his mind. It was the shock of seeing someone die up close and personal, that's all this was. It wasn't real, it wasn't real, it wasn't real.

And then she reached out and touched him, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, her face contorted in concern.

"Are you alright?"

No, he was fucking NOT alright. DID HE LOOK ALRIGHT?

"You…no. This isn't happening. This isn't real. You can't…how are you touching me?"

She gave him a nervous look, removing her hand slowly from his shoulder. "Better?" she asked, the way a patronizing adult might ask a frightened child.

"No, that's not better, because you can't be here, you can't be real, you can't be…you're—"

"I'm what?"

"DEAD! You are dead. I saw you die with my own eyes, yesterday. I felt your heart stop beating." George's own heart was going rapid fire at this point.

"Oh. That. Is that why you're freaking out?"

George was too stricken to say a word. Instead, he just stood there, trying not to hyperventilate, wondering who would believe him if he told them that he had a dead girl in his bedroom. The lads would probably pass it off as an acid trip gone wrong, Brian would dismiss it as shock. The media would have a field day if it ever got out though. He could just see the headline now:

POP STAR GOES NUTTY—HAS FAME GOTTEN TO HIS HEAD?

"If it makes you feel better, I made some coffee," she offered.

"It doesn't make me feel better."

"Oh."

He shook his head slowly, eyes wide, hands shaking. "Dead people can't make coffee."

Catherine merely shrugged, sliding off the bed and standing across from him. "Don't knock it til you try it."

It was then that George realized that he was practically naked, save for a pair of tighty whities that barely covered anything. He blushed, looking down at himself without really thinking about what he was doing. He could feel Catherine's eyes move with his.

"Stop looking," he mumbled, turning around to dig in his drawers for a clean tee shirt.

"Really, it's not all that bad. You could use a tan—then again, couldn't we all?—and maybe stand to gain a few pounds, but really you're not all that bad to look at."

"Stop." He could feel the heat from his face spreading down the back of his neck.

"I don't know why you're bothering. I've seen a LOT more than that."

"Catherine, please."

"Speaking of that—you know, THAT—I actually was pleasantly surprised. Little guys like you don't usually pack a punch, but I guess you have to add in the height factor." She paused, surveying his thin body. "I could just see you with a tattoo of a tiger. Like…right above your ass."

He spun around, his hand coming to rest on the small of his back. "What?"

She let out a deep, loud chuckle that seemed to emanate right from her belly. It was a laugh that very much did not fit her face. "C'mon, Georgie. You're not afraid of a little tattoo, are you?"

"That's not really the issue."

"Oh, so you don't like tigers? Sorry, I thought I read that somewhere once. What about a dragon? No? An armadillo, then. I can see one of those right about your pale little ass che—"

"Shut it!"

He stormed out of the room, quite appalled by her vulgar sense of humor. In his room, he could still make out her carefree belly laughter, so loud that the neighbors on both sides could probably hear. And Peter downstairs.

He darted into the kitchen, fast walking over to the phone and pulling it off its cradle. He dialed a number quickly—one of the only ones he knew by heart. It had barely registered to him that the laughter had stopped before Catherine appeared there, in his kitchen, sitting at the table and giving him an amused look.

"Are you really gonna call him, George?"

George didn't answer, merely tapping his foot and waiting for the ringing to start. He glared impatiently at the receiver, as though it was its fault that Paul was so slow to get to the phone.

"And what are you gonna tell him? That the dead girl that you slept with yesterday is in your apartment?"

He froze, phone still to his ear, Catherine's words echoing around in his head. She had a good point, he had to admit it. And honestly, it was a little farfetched. If he had been hearing this story himself, he would have dismissed it as too many drugs. Hallucinations. Anything that wouldn't defy the impossible; sorry, the improbable.

Just as a muffled "Hello" escaped the phone, George slammed it back on its cradle. What was he going to do now? He couldn't tell anybody, he wasn't sure if he could show anybody, and…just shit. Fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck shit. Why did things like this always happen to him?

Okay, not always. That was a stretch.

He sat down at the table after a long period of deliberation, unsure of what exactly to say. Catherine sat across from him, staring unabashedly right back into his eyes. Her fingers tapped the tabletop quickly and pattered out a rhythm. George had never felt more uncomfortable in his life.

"So…er…do you want something to eat?"

"No."

"Are you sure, 'cause I've got—"

"I'm dead, George. Eating isn't number one on my list of things to do."

A heavy silence fell over them, and George found himself looking towards the cabinets, trying to breathe evenly and calm his mind. Clear his thoughts. Try and figure out what the hell to do. Suddenly, he started to crave another of the marshmallows that he knew to be stored in the cupboard above the sink. In his mind, he planned out just how he was going to reach those wonderful, fluffy objects of mouthwatering perfection. Just as he was about to get up, Catherine started talking.

"Don't you have any questions for me?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. His eyes darted up towards the cupboard once more. "No."

"You really don't say much, do you," she thought aloud, surveying him blatantly. She snorted when he eyes moved past the table and she saw that he still didn't have any pants on. George could pretty much see her thoughts on her forehead: ARMADILLO TRAMP STAMP.

"Can anyone else see you?" he asked her, merely to distract her from thoughts about his body and any tattoos that might even adorn it in the near or distant future. "Like, besides me?"

She shrugged, examining nails that would probably never grow again. "I don't know. But I would suspect not, seeing as that would ruin the point."

"And the point is…?"

She looked at him like instead of saying "And the point is…?" he had jumped up on the table, ripped his shirt off, and started reciting the whole of his first album's lyrics whilst doing the conga with invisible partners and a mule.

"And the point is, my dear intercourse accomplice, I'm _haunting_ you now."

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**And that's it. Sooo…bye?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay. So the past few months have been hectic and overwhelming and FanFiction didn't really fit into my schedule. I hate how adults think they have it so much worse than kids, sometimes. It really pisses me off. But, you know. I'm here now. Trying to write. Again. So…have a read? Thanks :) **

George was never a huge fan of secrets. Keeping them, sharing them, having them kept from him…usually he just avoided them. However, these days, secrets were consuming his life.

It started when John came for a visit, only hours after he found out he had a ghost taking up quarters in his house. George had been straightening things around the house—having finally gotten dressed—with his friend trailing behind him and bombarding him with questions.

"So, how often do you bring home girls?"

"Do you usually clean the house in your tighty whities?" (That was the point where he had crossed the room and slammed the French doors to his bedroom in her face.)

"Who's your best friend?"

"Do you even have a best friend?"

"Do you like your band mates?"

"How about me—do you consider ME your friend?"

All of these George had ignored with amazing perseverance. And he also figured something out about Catherine; she could carry an entire conversation by herself, not even needing him to answer questions she fired off at him. It was both frustrating and amusing.

She was just going off on another tangent when the doorbell rang.

"So you're, like, what? The youngest out of all of them? Yeah, I'm the same age as Paul, I know that. Because my little sister—Clare—she's pretty much in love with you, and she always told me that I'd be perfect for Paul because we're the same age. Actually, I'm a little older than him, since my birthday's in May, but I don't really count that as older, you know? OhmyGod…if I'm staying here with you, does that mean I'll get to see Paul? Like, a lot? Do you and him come here and sing and play? And Ringo? Holy fuck, I LOVE Ringo. Does he—"

DINNNNNNNNNG-DONNNNNNNNG

George immediately dropped whatever he was doing and rushed to the door, pulling it open before Catherine could utter a single word. There stood John, George's band mate and one of his best friends. However, his face paled at the sight of him and the guitar case he held in his hand.

John noted several things about George upon seeing him. First off, his hair was disheveled and looked like it hadn't been washed in a while—uncommon. Very uncommon. George was a hair guy, and he always took care of his. Always. And then he saw the paleness of his face, which popped brightly against his nearly black hair. That actually didn't surprise him too much; it was George, God of the Snow-People, after all. Besides all that, there was the way his eyes were constantly shifty, looking behind himself to check if—well, John didn't really know.

A startling thought occurred to him—maybe George had a woman over.

"Oh, I hope I'm not interrupting anything," John said, a smile sliding over his lips as he casually shifted his weight to try and see around George. George, too, moved within the doorframe, blocking it entirely with his thin, lanky frame.

"No. I was just…you know…around." He got a distant look in his eyes for a moment, then snapped back to reality. He looked at John in the eye for the first time, frowning. "You want to come in?"

John nodded, then stepped past his friend into the bright apartment, looking around curiously. Everything looked tidy and clean, but almost too much so. Like he had made a pointed effort of straightening up this room to give the appearance of general normalness.

John was suspicious.

George watched nervously as John picked his way through the room, examining everything. Catherine sat on the couch, her eyes fixed curiously on John, who was completely oblivious to her. Once he appeared to be satisfied, he turned back to George, tossing the guitar on the couch. Catherine jumped out of the way just in time, and it hit the cushion with a dull thud. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. They both pretty much had the same question in their minds: What would have happened if it touched her?

"Got anything to eat?" John asked, already striding into the kitchen.

"Yeah," George said, wide eyes on Catherine, "there's something in there, I think."

John came back out, carrying a box of Corn Flakes and munching on a handful. "What are ya looking at, mate?"

George took his eyes off hers and glanced at him. "Er…nothing. There's a stain on the couch or something."

John didn't believe him. It was very apparent. George was acting strange and he felt like it was his personal duty to dig the truth out of him. That was why he quickly walked over to the French doors that he knew led to George's bedroom, through them open, and peered inside.

Unlike the rest of the flat, this room was destroyed. The bed covers were thrown up, hanging halfway off the bed; clothes were strewn all over the floor and drawers were halfway open; items from the living room were tossed unceremoniously; what was more, George's face when he opened the doors said it all.

"Aha!" John exclaimed joyously, turning around and staring brightly at George. "Where is she? Did she just leave? Or—fuck, you dog, is she still here?" He grinned devilishly. "Wild night, eh?" He gestured around the room.

If it was possible, George's face paled even further. He looked down at his feet, contemplating what he should say. If he told the truth (that yeah, she was still here, but she was kind of transparent), John would think that he was either crazy or tripping hard. And it wasn't like John was exactly sensitive, and would let him off easy. No, he would make fun of him for his words until the world ended. And George just wasn't up for that.

"Shut up, John. There's no one here, there was no one here last night. There hasn't been a bird here since—"

He stopped, because he was coming to the part where the truth would threaten to spill out of his mouth. Instead, he closed his eyes and rubbed his hand over his face and through his messy hair, the stressfulness of the situation weighing down upon him. Why him? Why was HE chosen to get haunted by this girl—this girl that he hardly knew?

"Ah. That girl." John's excited face slipped into something slightly more sympathetic, and he stepped out of George's room, closing the doors behind him.

"Her name was Catherine." The words surprised George himself. He wasn't really sure why he corrected John. For all intents and purposes, it was better that John not know that he even knew her name at all.

But how could he forget her? How would John expect him to know nothing about her after everything that happened yesterday? No, it was okay that he admitted this small truth; that he knew her name. After all the press he had to dodge after sitting with her in her last few moment—or, rather, what he assumed to be her last few moments—everybody knew her name. Catherine Scott, the girl mysteriously tied with George Harrison.

John nodded, moving to the couch and starting to put away his guitar. "You hardly even knew her. Right?" George wasn't really listening. He was more fixed on the fact that Catherine was now standing by the window, her arms crossed, staring at him pointedly.

"What? Oh, yeah. Well, I guess."

"Why'd you do it then, mate? What was she to you?"

Catherine scoffed audibly, her eyes narrowing. Thankfully, John seemed completely oblivious to this.

"I don't know. I mean…she was just some bird, I guess." He glanced over at Catherine, who was still glaring at John. "But we got along good. And then I saw her get hit." He shrugged, his quiet natured preventing him from getting too descriptive about what was really going on in his head. "I just reacted."

"You got along good?" John repeated, stressing each syllable skeptically. "She was just a random shag, how would you know? Not unless…George, you didn't talk to her, right? Like, really talk to her?"

His words broke Catherine's trance. She turned and looked at George, questions dancing in her eyes. "What is he talking about?"

George was feeling a little overwhelmed, unsure of whether or not he should answer both of them or…? "Uh, I don't know," he said weakly.

"You don't know whether you talked to her or not? What the fuck, George? What do you think? I mean, you either talked to her or not, it's not like that." John studied him, taking in his guilty features. "You did. Ahh, Jesus. That's why this is bothering you so much. You _never _get to know them."

Her mouth fell open, and she took a quick step towards him. "You bastard! Oh, my God. I thought it was just a rumor…I never imagined it to be true…." She looked back up at George again. "So, you're just like him? You just sleep with women and aren't even _allowed to talk to them_?"

"No, I—"

John interrupted, hoisting his guitar onto his lap. "You're so young and innocent, it's almost endearing. But honestly, you don't know how much you annoy me, mate. I can't deal with this all the time. First with Ringo—fucking Ringo, you have no idea what he put me through when he found out about this whole thing with you and that girl—"

"He's SO insensitive of you," Catherine interjected at this, and John kept jabbering on while George turned and looked at her. "I never knew he was such an asshole. I mean, I've seen interviews and shit—I knew he was a little sassy. But seriously, what the hell? He's not kidding, is he?"

George didn't like her talking about John this way. She truly didn't know him, or what he'd been put through in his life. Sometimes, he could be a little much, but he had a brilliant mind and a good heart (somewhere in there). And he was George's best friend. Shouldn't that tell her something—anything at all?

"She wasn't even that good looking, Georgie. I mean, sure, she had that whole curvy-sex appeal thing going on. But, did you see her nose? Turned right up, like a little piggy."

"WHAT? Holy—who does this guy think he IS? Are you just gonna stand there and let him—"

"STOP." John and Catherine both obeyed, staring at him and wondering what his little outburst was about. He seriously felt like his mind was going to explode any second now. "You need to shut up and play your guitar and you can just…leave."

John furrowed his brow. "George, mate…there's only one of me here. Make up your mind; should I stay or should I go?"

George let a long stream of breath out of his nostrils, frustrated and tired and just bleh. However, when he looked over at Catherine, he found that the patch of floor next to the window was completely devoid of anything human-like. This was good. This was progress. He answered John in a considerably lighter tone.

"Yeah, er, sorry. I know." He sat down next to his friend, pulling his guitar from beside the sofa and propping it up in his lap. "So, what do you need that dear Paulie couldn't provide you?"

John took a deep breath. "Well…"

Three hours and twenty-one minutes later, George closed the door on an elated John, who had just finished a song and was off to throw it in Paul's face. Paul would probably pick it apart and tear it down, the reconstruct it and call it a day. But that, sometimes, was Lennon/McCartney. That was the Beatles. That was George, never getting any credit for anything.

He turned around, sighing, and headed straight for his bedroom, where he felt a nap was in store before anything else happened later tonight. He was dead tired; it turned out that worrying and secret-keeping were quite exhausting. Who would know?

The French doors flew open at his touch, and he dragged his feet towards his untidy king sized bed, long for the fluffy duvet and the cool sheets. He was just about to throw himself forward when something he hadn't noticed before cleared her throat.

George jumped. In the approximate spot that he was going to launch himself at, Catherine lay on her side. Once again, he noted the curve of her hip through the clingy, soft material of her dress. He followed the smooth paleness of her leg all the way up; beyond her thigh, the hill that was her hip, the sudden deep dip that was the valley of her waistline, the curve of her breast, the oval shape of her head, the auburn curls that spilled over her shoulder. He shuddered, looking away. It wasn't right to look at her like that anymore. She was dead. Gone. This wasn't Catherine.

Not that he had ever really knew Catherine.

"I thought I said to leave," he said quietly, looking down at her overlarge feet.

"I thought I told you I can't," she responded in the same tone.

He took a deep breath, looking up and shaking his head. "This can't…you have to. I have a life. I have a band and friends and I'm gonna have different women in and out. You have to understand that I hardly even know you."

She stared at him intently, sitting up and drawing her long legs out in front of her. Her tongue peeked out of her mouth and moistened her plump lips absentmindedly. George was struck by how odd this all way; all these simple functions, performed by someone who wasn't really there.

"I can't leave," she repeated, not meeting his eye.

He watched her soft features, afraid to say the next words. George was not a mean person. He was generally very sweet, almost too sweet sometimes. But he knew when he had to stand up for himself, he knew when he had to say what was necessary. And now was one of those times where he couldn't let it slide.

"I'm so sorry about what happened, Catherine. But if you can't leave…we're going to have a problem."

Finally, after a long time, she looked up at him. Her blue eyes looked tortured, and he knew that if she had a choice in the matter, she would have never came here at all. So what was keeping her here? Why was it so important that she haunt his apartment? Would she follow him if he moved? His head suddenly felt like it was going to explode again.

"George?" she asked, her voice forlorn, her face right about to crumble.

"Yeah?"

She inhaled deeply, licking her lips again. "You can call me Catie."

Just as he opened his mouth to respond, she disappeared. Poof. Gone. And that was when he knew that Catherine was here to stay.

Sorry—Catie.

**Well. I was pretty happy with this chapter, I must say. I got to throw my favorite Beatle in there—John Lennon forever—and maybe he didn't have the NICEST things to say…but…well. That's our John. Anyways, I'm sorry that this took me so long to put out, but once again, I've been busy. And now that school's out in the city, it should be easier for me to write. Thanks for your support, guys. Review!**


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